You didn’t mean to cry at his house.

Honestly, you hadn’t even meant to be at his house. But your brother had dragged you along after school—something about picking up his charger, or his boots, or whatever random football thing he’d left behind again. It wasn’t supposed to take more than five minutes. You were just the tagalong little sister, sitting stiffly in Jude Bellingham’s kitchen while the boys talked upstairs.

You kept your head down, eyes on your phone. Pretending. Trying to keep it together.

But the tears slipped anyway.

Quiet ones, at first—sharp blinks that turned into wet cheeks. You swiped at them quickly, hoping no one would notice. Because crying over school, over grades, over teachers calling home and slipping marks and the suffocating pressure to be perfect—it all felt stupid. Childish. And you were supposed to be stronger than that.

But it was too much.

You’d always been the “smart one,” the one who got it right the first time. The girl who teachers praised. The one your family bragged about. But this term? You’d failed. One test, then another. Your maths teacher sent an email. Your science teacher pulled you aside. And your parents’ disappointment felt louder than anything else.

So yeah, you cried.

Until you heard footsteps.

You turned fast, trying to hide your face, but it was too late. Jude was already in the doorway, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Hey.” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head quickly. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it for a second.

“Come on,” he said, crossing the room in a few long steps. He crouched in front of you, hands on his knees, voice low. “You’ve been sitting here with your phone off for ten minutes. You’re crying. That’s not nothing.”

You didn’t answer.

Because what were you supposed to say?

I’m failing. I feel stupid. I feel like I’m disappointing everyone. I feel like I can’t breathe.

Instead, you looked at him—and maybe that was your mistake.

Because Jude Bellingham was your brother’s best friend. Had been since you were five. He was the boy who used to toss you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, who teased you for having glitter pens and always picked you first for backyard football even though you were awful at it.

But now? He wasn’t that boy anymore.

He was taller, broader, quiet in a way that made you want to fill the silence. His curls were longer now. His jaw was sharper. And when he looked at you—really looked at you—it wasn’t like you were just someone’s little sister.

It was like you were you.

“I got bad grades,” you finally muttered. Your voice cracked. “Like, really bad. And I don’t even know what happened. I tried. I always try. But it just—didn’t make sense. And now I feel like—like they’re not gonna see me the same anymore.”

You hated how small your voice sounded. Hated that you said it at all.

But Jude didn’t laugh. Didn’t make a joke.

He reached out, brushing a thumb under your eye so gently you barely felt it.

“They’re just grades,” he said quietly. “You’re still you. You’re still smart. Still brilliant.”

Your throat tightened.

“Do you know how many times I messed up when I was your age?” he asked. “So many. Didn’t mean I wasn’t gonna make it. Didn’t mean I wasn’t good enough. And it doesn’t mean that for you.”

You blinked hard. “But you’re you.”

He smiled. “And you’re you. That’s better.”

For a moment, you just looked at him. His hand was still on your cheek. His eyes were warm, focused only on you. And something about it made the air feel too thick.

And then he pulled you into his chest—his arms firm and steady around your shaking shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’d been waiting years to do it.